Not His Father
by mlocatis
Summary: Just another Harry and Snape fic, set during OOTP Occlumency lessons. Animosity between the two is already at a record high, and one night Harry just lets loose-with both his magic and his words. He reveals a little more about himself than he intended, leaving Snape reeling and severely disoriented. Headed in a Mentor direction, no Slash, canon-compliant through DH
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This was an idea that I've been working on as a break from my other stories. Don't know where it's going, how long it might be, or if it will be continued. If you like it, give me a shout! Also, it's not terribly original or anything, so be forewarned. Just another Occlumency-makes-Snape-see-who-Harry-really-is type story, probably headed in the mentor/adoption direction. Also, I do not have my copy of OOTP around and so I've probably committed many egregious errors in regards to canon details and timeline. Thanks in advance to anyone who spots an issue; I promise it will be corrected. Cheers!**

Harry slumped back to the ground, his brow covered in sweat and his stomach once again nearly in dry heaves. He couldn't keep doing this, he thought. Night after night, with Snape towering above him, torturing him, ripping through his memories, taunting him and criticizing him and insulting him at every turn. He couldn't take another moment.

Snape stood in front of his desk, wand drawn, his natural menace only enhanced by the contents of his office. The glass jars of the shelves behind him glimmered ominously in the dim torchlight of the man's office, and sometimes Harry swore that the creatures in those jars were winking at him.

" _Concentrate_ , Potter!" Snape spat, disgusted. "How many weeks have we been at this? How many hours of my precious time have you wasted? And still—still!—you have been unable to push me from your mind. Not even a feeble shove, not a shred of resistance—"

"I'm trying!" Harry cried, fighting back the frustrated tears brimming in his eyes. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong—"

"Apparently everything, since you have yet to do one thing _right_!" he snapped. "Have you even been practicing?"

"Yes," Harry exclaimed, though he knew that was not true.

"Liar," Snape hissed, lowering his wand at last. "Lazy, arrogant… just like your father! I don't know why I expected any differently. No one could expect the sainted James Potter to have to work for a skill, no, that would be beneath him! And who would expect any differently for the great Harry Potter? He could not be expected to _learn_ , no, not anything that doesn't come to him naturally!"

Harry struggled to his feet. "Stop talking about my father—"

"I will do no such thing," Snape sneered. "Not when you are so proud to see yourself in him. Here is the truth, Potter, and listen well. Your father was a swine, inconceivably entitled, incapable of seeing past the tip of his nose, and you are no different—"

"I AM NOT MY FATHER!" Harry roared, feeling a sudden surge of power rising in him like a tidal wave. He could feel it, whatever it was, in his veins and against his skin. It thrummed, it pulsed, seemingly to the rhythm of his racing heart.

The torches began to flicker, and all the jars began to clatter against each other.

"Potter," Snape growled, his tone deadly, his eyes flashing. "You do not _speak_ to me in that insolent—"

The power radiating out from Harry only seemed to intensify at that. It felt to Harry as if the walls themselves were shaking.

"Potter, calm yourself." Now the anger had faded somewhat, and Snape's tone had turned stony and imperious.

But there was no stopping this flood. Harry could feel it rushing forth from the core of his being, his magic mingling with his charged emotions until the two were pouring out of him, inseparably intertwined. The force of it knocked Snape back so that he was caught leaning against his desk, bracing himself by his palms, his pale face absolutely white with rage.

The man opened his mouth to speak again, but no sound came out.

Which was fine. Because Harry had a lot to say.

"That's all I've ever heard from you, from day one! Just like your father, just like your father, parroted over and over! Is that all you have to say? Do you like blinding yourself? Because how the bloody hell can I be _just like my father_ when I never even knew the man?

"Oh, no, but it doesn't matter, bad blood will out—isn't that right, Snape? Just like my cow of an aunt said! Oh, you'd love the woman! You could go on and on about how my parents were bloody laze-about drunks, how they got themselves killed through their own stupidity, about how I'm such a burden! You could spend all day comparing my poor manners to the nasty little puppies she breeds! But don't mention Hogwarts, mind, she thinks I go to St. Brutus'—for incurably criminal boys, you know, exactly where I belong! That's where they tell everyone I go! Go on, Snape, have a laugh! Famous Harry Potter, and his relatives lie and say he goes to a special school for young felons! Bet you wish they'd really shipped me off there!

"Yes, I'm just like my father, a bloody criminal bastard who doesn't care about anyone but himself! I'm so full of myself, I _strut_ around Hogwarts, I flout every rule for no reason other than to satisfy my own desires! Mind, you don't have a single damned piece of evidence that would let you draw such extreme conclusions, but hell, why should you be rational? Might as well be like everyone else! While you're at it, get paid for your opinions! Write a bloody article for the Prophet, an exclusive from the Boy Who Lies' favorite professor! Tell them all about how I'm a menace and a pathological liar! Tell them all about how I'm constantly making up stories for more attention, because Merlin knows I don't get enough of it!

"I loved it my first year, when I went from living in a bloody cupboard under the stairs to having every damned person I met know my name and my life story! Oh, that was grand! One minute I'm smacked upside the head anytime the neighbors get a whiff of my existence, the next I have people fawning all over me because my parents were slaughtered and I just happened to survive. God, it's just great having people thank you for being an orphan. Like having salt rubbed in that wound every single damned day—and thanks for that, too, Professor, for comparing me to the father I'll never know all the time! Thanks for drawing more attention to the poor, orphaned Boy Who Bloody Lived! Made sure to do that on the very first day, didn't you?

"Yeah, it must have felt great to humiliate the little kid who'd just learned magic existed a month prior! It wasn't like it was overwhelming or anything, learning about all that and trying to convince my goddamned relatives to let me even come to this school! It's not like they tried to hide from all the bloody owls delivering our mail on a deserted island in the middle of the godforsaken sea or anything! It's not like I was raised in a home where the m-word got me locked up without meals! Oh, that's right, I didn't even know magic was real, and they still didn't let me say it! Excuse me, Professor, I should have spent that precious month memorizing the ingredients for the Draught of Living Death, or looking up what useful things might be hidden in goat stomachs, or swallowing the entire bloody text on magical herbs so I'd know all the possible names of plants we'd be using! How remiss of me!"

Harry wasn't done. The magic was still pouring out of him, steady as ever. The jars chattered against each other on their shelves, and Snape still seemed to be frozen against his desk, silenced by Harry's power. The man didn't even seem capable of drawing his wand. But his face was no longer contorted in rage; now it was blanched, drawn, inscrutable, his dark eyes locked on Harry.

Harry didn't care. He could feel his blood coursing in him still, wild, and could hear the thud of his heart against his ribcage. And all he cared about was letting all this out. The words seemed to be streaming out from some pit inside him, a place where they'd gathered and festered for five long years, and now he was ready to purge himself of their poison.

"Oh, but let me guess, Professor," Harry continued caustically, "you don't believe a damned word coming out of my mouth! No, poor Potter is just making up stories again, wallowing in self-pity, trying to make his mean Potions professor feel bad for him. Well, I don't give a damn what you think! No self-respecting person should! You're so miserable and bitter that the only way you can keep going is by tormenting others and spreading the misery, so that everyone's just as unhappy as you are. But I'm done. I'm not letting you unload on me anymore. You can find yourself another outlet.

"Here's the truth, _sir_. You call me arrogant. You call me lazy. You might as well be talking to yourself! You think you have any right to judge my father, however he acted, when all you do is humiliate me and insult me, day after day? You think you're better than him? He'd have to be Voldemort himself for that to be true!

"And I'm lazy? _I_ didn't prepare? There was nothing _to_ prepare! You're here to _instruct_ me, and all you have for me is three useless, meaningless words! _Clear your mind_. Oh, and _control your emotions._ Just as good as _cast this spell_ or _brew this potion_. At least in class you bother to write the damned instructions out! At least I have a text to make up for your piss-poor teaching skills!

"You _know_ how important these lessons are. You _know_ I'm having visions, that he can hurt me, that I'm a vulnerability to all of us right now, and you're still _arrogant_ enough to sit down here, night after night, attacking me, pawing through my mind, and then blame _me_ when I can't do whatever the hell it is I'm supposed to do! Not taking the time to figure out another goddamn way of teaching is the definition of arrogance and laziness!

"Well, don't worry, _sir,_ I think we're done here. I'd have better luck teaching myself at this rate, and I won't be wasting your _precious_ time anymore. And who knows, in the meantime maybe you'll get lucky! Maybe Voldemort'll figure out how to get into my mind and destroy it from the inside out! Maybe I'll end up in a ward at St. Mungo's, and you'll never have to worry about the bloody Boy Who Lived ever again! Better yet, maybe he'll figure out how to kill me from a distance! You'd just love that, wouldn't you?"

Snape actually seemed to flinch at that.

"Keep your fingers crossed, sir," Harry finished coldly, his hands clenched into fists beside him. "Maybe you'll never have to see me again."

The jars at last stopped shaking.

And with those words, Harry spun on heel, snatching up his bag, and ran out of the office, his heart still hammering in his chest.

XXXXX

It took Snape several minutes to draw himself out of the stupor that he'd been in since Potter had ended his little rant.

The Potions Master's mind was whirling with everything that had just happened.

Part of him was furious. What Potter had done was beyond the pale. Accidental magic or not, he'd still held Snape against his will in his own office and yelled at him for a good twenty-five minutes. The whelp had spoken so disrespectfully that Snape could still feel his blood boiling. The worthless child should be strapped, he thought, for having dared to take such a tone. The nerve of that brat, silencing him and screaming at him like an insufferable twit, proving that he was every inch what he had just shouted he was not, his beastly father's son. Yes, Potter's son through and through, thinking he knew everything, that _he_ was in any position to judge his professor, to call his teaching _piss poor_ ….

Oh, the boy was crude and vulgar and so full of himself. And he'd just thrown a tantrum that would make the likes of even Albus Dumbledore blush to the tip of his toes. Yes, here was their precious little warrior in all his glory, pitching a fit like a three-year-old, shouting himself hoarse because he was incapable of taking some initiative and put in any actual work. Likely he thought he could go cry to Dumbledore with that sob story he'd spewed and find a sympathetic ear, and then Dumbledore would call Severus up and insist that it was _his_ fault after all, that he wasn't making enough of an effort to teach the temperamental little ingrate. Yes, Severus would be faulted for failing to _coddle_ their precious boy, and Potter would never be reprimanded for his disgusting outburst . They would let the little whelp continue on like this, unchecked, undisciplined….

No, he would see to it that the boy paid for his behavior. Every last bit of it. He would refuse to do a damned thing for the Order until he received a proper apology, until the boy groveled at his feet and begged forgiveness for his absolute insolence. And then he would see to it that the boy was punished to the fullest extent possible. A Quidditch ban, detentions every day, lines to be written in his spare time…. Yes, he would make sure that Potter never dared to raise his voice to his Potions Master again. In fact, by the time he was through with him, the boy would blanch at the mere thought of even looking at him wrong.

But beneath all that anger festered uncertainty and disbelief and—even if he could not consciously admit it—shame. Yes, Potter had cut strips off of him with his words. He hadn't stooped to petty name-calling or incoherent rage. Everything had been in response to what Severus had said, what Severus had accused him of. Most stinging was the criticism of his teaching skills.

Because damn it, the boy was right. What had he given Potter to work with? Severus had picked up the skill of Occlumency out of necessity. He'd had a few texts to point him in the early days, while he was still at Hogwarts. He'd always valued his privacy, and as soon as he'd heard of the existence of Legilimency and pictured how devastating such a skill could be in the hands of Potter and his ilk, he'd set out to protect himself. He'd only been a fledgling Occlumens in those days, never having had to really test his skills out.

Not until he'd met the Dark Lord. Not until the man had felt his feeble resistance when he'd first looked into Severus' mind, and found yet another way to draw Snape in. Perhaps even then the Dark Lord had been thinking to groom him as a spy. Even so, it was an excuse for the Dark Lord to peer into his very soul night after night, to teach him to protect himself, to hide himself. It had been an opportunity to craft the trap of servitude to appeal precisely to Severus' weaknesses and fears.

That had been the teaching method he'd been using with Potter. Attack and defend. Learn by experience. Severus had already had a foundation, and he'd been eager to prove himself to his would-be Master, so he'd applied himself with vigor to their lessons, and his skills had developed rapidly.

After he'd turned, Albus had, of course, given him more lessons—practice, mostly, against a skilled opponent. Snape himself had been charged with polishing his skills. Albus had offered little by way of specific guidance. Then again, Snape had been accomplished enough to effectively take charge of his own advancement. Dumbledore had effectively served as a sparring partner, someone against whom he could strengthen his reflexes and tighten the gaps in his mental shield as well as work on the sophistication of his false memories.

Potter did not need a sparring partner; he needed base instruction. He could have given the boy the texts he'd used, Severus thought, or mentioned the titles. Anything to give him a grounding in the subject. Instead, he'd done just as the boy had said, tortured him mercilessly night after night with barely three words of guidance. Yes, some of the onus was on him; Potter may have been a poor pupil, but he was equally at fault for not recognizing the boy's need for more guidance.

Not that his own shortcomings even remotely excused Potter's behavior, he thought bitterly, rounding his desk and seating himself in his chair. He would take a moment to recover, and then he would be paying the headmaster a visit to discuss his darling protégé. He would list his demands, and he would see to it that Potter paid thoroughly for his utter lack of respect.

Snape lazily waved his wand at his kettle, deciding that a cup of tea would be good to settle his nerves. After all, his dealings with Albus Dumbledore left him with little doubt of how this was to be handled. He could not be remotely emotional. He would wait until every last trickle of the white-hot fury he felt was gone, until there was nothing left but cold rage, something he could control, something that would allow him to speak softly and reasonably. He had to maintain the upper hand here, or Albus would scold him for letting his emotions run rampant.

No, he had to come across as the soul of reason, the offended party seeking restitution. The long-suffering, aggrieved professor who had tolerated more than his job description demanded, who now expected justice for the offense committed against him.

The kettle whistled and, with another flick of his wand, Snape had his teacup floating out of the cupboard, a bag of his favorite herbal blend not far behind. Minutes later, his long fingers were laced tightly around the cup and he was inhaling the fragrant scent of the brew, willing his thudding heart to slow.

Something else was niggling at his mind. The other confessions that Potter had hurled, comparing him to the boy's aunt. He assumed he hadn't meant Petunia, given that he couldn't imagine the girl he'd known ever taking up dog-breeding. And what was that rot about some school for criminals? The things Potter dreamed up….

Though his instincts were screaming that there was no lie there. Why would the boy lie, after all? It was an embarrassing detail if it was true. And given Petunia's hatred of all things magical, he supposed it might not be a stretch for her to invent such a horrible lie to cover for Potter's absence during the school year.

Which would mean that Potter's home life was less than ideal, he continued to argue with himself. Hadn't the boy mentioned being locked up without meals? And something about a cupboard?

No, exaggerations, likely. The boy was a pathological liar. In all likelihood, he'd invented everything. No different than all the ridiculous articles they'd run about him in the press the last year, the endless pieces regaling his adoring public of every last detail of all things Potter. And that was all his impromptu "confessions" had been, after all, just a continuation of those desperate ploys for attention. The boy's head had swollen enormously after the Tri-Wizard mess, and now Potter could not fathom that there was a soul in the wizarding world uncharmed by his exploits and tragic backstory.

Yes, the boy had been trying to garner sympathy for some foolish reason, and he'd let his mouth run ahead of him. Severus was a fool for even considering those blatant falsehoods might be truth.

 _I don't give a damn what you think! No self-respecting person should!_

Snape flinched as those words entered his mind, unbidden. No, those were not the words of someone desperate for pity, were they?

Well, Snape thought bitterly, maybe Potter was just all over the charts, unhinged by his little temper tantrum. Maybe he couldn't keep his sights on one clear goal. He had, after all, said some rather nasty things to Severus, things that would keep the man from feeling even remotely sympathetic.

Snape sipped his tea, forcing his thoughts back to his upcoming meeting with the headmaster. Albus would not be pleased with him. He would see it as the potions master's antagonism run rampant yet again. Not that he didn't have every right to be hostile, Snape thought, having Potter foisted onto him in addition to his spying and teaching duties, not to mention all the brewing he was doing for both sides of this damned war. And it wasn't as if it was stressful knowing that, should the Dark Lord peer into Potter's mind and judged him to be just a bit _too_ helpful, just a bit _too_ convincing in his supposed role as Dumbledore's pet, he might be called to the snake bastard's side for a nice long torture session, followed by death.

He would have to keep his temper in check. Especially with Albus. He could not let a hint of vindictiveness show. He would have to present himself as eminently reasonable, open to continuing instruction so long as the boy was properly chastised and punished for his actions.

Snape checked the clock in the corner of his desk. Just past eight. Doubtless the headmaster would still be up. He drained the dregs of his cup, stood up, and drew himself up to his full height. Whatever the headmaster's criticisms of Snape's own shortcomings in this, he would not yield. He had been disrespected and his authority flouted. Potter was in the wrong, and deeply so, and he would not give an inch on that.

He drew one more calming breath before reaching for the inlaid wood box of floo powder that he kept on the mantle. He thrust a pinch into the hearth and announced coolly, "Headmaster's office!"

He strode through the flames, already forming the words of his complaint in his mind.

XXXXX

Harry had really blown it this time. His fury had long since faded. In fact, by the time he'd climbed the first set of stairs, all that anger and rage had burned out completely, leaving him with nothing but cold terror and utter mortification.

Snape was going to kill him. And not just kill him, he thought. No, the man was going to slaughter him. Demand he be burned at the stake. Or flogged in public, at the very least. Maybe he could just run outside of Hogwarts and call for Voldemort. Dying at the hands of the crazed madman had to be better than facing whatever Snape had in mind.

Harry ran up the stairs, navigating the shifting staircases, his mind on a singular purpose. He needed to hide. He needed to find somewhere safe where he could gather his thoughts and figure out how to clean up his bloody mess. Because he'd be summoned to the headmaster's office any minute now, called to face the music, and he just couldn't deal with that. He couldn't deal with the disappointment he would see in the old man's eyes, or the loathing in Snape's. Or the stern disapproval of McGonagall, who would also undoubtedly be dragged into this. Hell, Umbridge would likely butt in too, maybe even try to insist that he be turned over to the Ministry for discipline, and that would be a problem that no one needed to deal with.

He just needed a little time to figure out how to salvage this, if it could be salvaged.

Well, he thought, there was one place he could hide. Even if it was just for the night.

He reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, ashen-faced and out of breath.

"Well, I say," the woman declared. "You look as if you've seen Death himself, my dear boy."

"Mimbulus Mimbletonia," Harry snapped, in no mood to converse with the woman.

The Fat Lady rolled her eyes, but swung wide to permit him entry.

There were only a few students still milling about in the common room, thankfully. Most were still making their way back to the Tower before curfew. Neville sat in one corner with Seamus and Dean, working on what appeared to be a Herbology. Fred, George and Lee Jordan were playing Exploding Snap in the corner, with a small throng of younger students watching them.

"Now see, an _ordinary_ game would only produce a small, harmless explosion," one of the twins was explaining, "but with a Weasley Wizarding Wheezes special deck—oy, Harry, who died?"

Ron and Hermione rose instantly from where they'd been waiting for Harry on the couch before the fire. They both winced in sympathy; obviously his face gave a little too much away.

"That bad, mate?" Ron asked quietly.

Harry swallowed thickly. "I'll be right back," he said, before dashing up to their dormitory. He could feel the questioning looks following him, and heard the murmuring starting amongst the students, but he wasn't in any mood to try to address them. Instead, he headed straight to his trunk and drew out his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map. He tucked both into his bag and dashed back down the stairs.

"Harry," Hermione began, "what happened? You look awful—"

Harry grabbed her and Ron by the arms and started dragging them toward the portrait hole. "I need to talk to you alone," he said quietly, still pulling them along.

"It's almost curfew," Hermione protested.

"I have my cloak," Harry murmured softly, so only she and Ron had a chance of hearing.

They followed him out into the hall and into a deserted corridor, where Harry drew out the Marauder's Map and muttered a quick "I solemnly swear I am up to no good".

"Was it another vision?" Hermione prompted. "If it was, you have to go to Dumbledore—"

"It wasn't a vision," Harry insisted quietly, his eyes scanning the corridor where the Room of Requirement was located. Deserted. Good.

"What'd Snape do?" Ron hissed. "What'd that slimy bastard—"

"Sh," Harry hushed him. "I'll tell you everything, I promise, but not here."

Ron and Hermione looked skeptical, but they followed swiftly after Harry, who navigated the familiar route up to the seventh floor with ease.

Standing in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, Harry wracked his brain. Well, what did he _require_ right now? A way out of this fiasco he'd created? Even the Room of Requirement wasn't that powerful, he thought.

With Hermione and Ron watching, Harry drew a deep breath and began pacing.

 _I need a place to hide. I need a place to hide. I need a place to hide._

To his great relief, the door appeared. Harry yanked it open and, with a jerk of his head, indicated for Ron and Hermione to follow him.

Inside, the room had shaped itself into a lovely sitting room. Against the left wall was a massive hearth with a fire already roaring, surrounded by three massive, overstuffed armchairs. A teapot and cups were set out on a low coffee table, just waiting to be used. The Room had transformed the back wall into a giant, wide window—likely enchanted—that looked over the grounds of Hogwarts, letting in a fair amount of moonlight.

Harry closed the door tightly behind them and promptly threw himself down in one of the chairs. He closed his eyes. His body ached from the tension he'd been carrying, and he would like nothing more, he thought, than to curl up in his bed and never wake up.

"All right, mate, spill it," Ron commanded.

Harry cracked his eyes open slightly to see Ron and Hermione take up residence in the two empty chairs. Hermione was biting her lip nervously, and Ron looked pale, almost green with worry.

"I went off on Snape."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

Ron snorted. "Is that all? Harry—"

"No, you don't understand," Harry cut him off, "I mean, I really lost it. I lost control of my magic—"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione gasped.

"And I—I somehow pinned him down and silenced him, and then I just… oh God. You have no idea. I said so many stupid things." Harry slammed his head back against the high-backed chair, closing his eyes again. "I said he was a piss-poor teacher and a miserable bastard—"

"Well, that's the truth. Don't see how he can fault you for that."

Hermione swatted at Ron, and Harry cracked a small grin in spite of himself. But that grin vanished in the next second.

"I ruined everything," Harry continued more quietly. "I—I basically assaulted him, then ran out on him. I should've turned back and apologized, but I just couldn't face it…. Ugh, he could have me expelled."

"Dumbledore would never allow it," Hermione reassured him, scooting forward so that she could rest a comforting hand on his knee.

"So it's going to be worse than expulsion!" Harry growled, burying his face in his hands. "I need the bloody git. I need to learn how to shield my mind. And no, before you ask, I haven't been trying as hard as I should. Yeah, I'm terrible. I tried to pin that all on him, too. I called him arrogant and lazy and said I'd have better luck teaching myself. Ugh, he's going to have me in detention every day… between Umbridge and Filch…."

"Look, Harry," Hermione began gently, "it can't be that bad. You just lost your temper. You can't tell me you weren't provoked."

Harry grinned crookedly, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Every time that man opens his mouth to speak to me, it's a provocation. So yeah, I was, but you know he doesn't care."

Memories of everything he'd said—more than just the insults—came swimming back to him. He groaned.

"Oh no. I just gave him a lifetime's worth of taunts…."

"Why don't you tell us the whole story," Ron suggested. "Start from the beginning."

And so Harry did. He told them about the awful lesson, about Snape's insults, about the feeling of something just _snapping_ in him. He told them about all the stupid things he'd said, stumbling a bit over the shameful details about the Dursleys. He'd let things slip to Snape that he'd never told his friends, and that made him feel just awful.

He'd always feared their pity. That was why he'd never really explained how bad things got during the summer. Sure, Ron had to have some inkling of it—all the Weasleys, in fact, given that he'd been rescued during his second year via flying car, and during that escapade they'd had to nick his stuff from downstairs and pry the bars off his window. That, and Mrs. Weasley always made sure to send him food during the summer months.

But Harry suspected they didn't know how bad it really was. Maybe they just figured that it was a strained relationship, and that the Dursleys didn't realize or care that he was a growing boy who needed a bit more to eat. They probably didn't realize that he went without meals, sometimes for days at a time—though things had been better over the last year or so. Ever since he'd dropped hints about his vengeful godfather, a wizard convict on the run….

Not that being left mostly alone and not locked up or starved made up for the awful lies they told about him.

"Incurably Criminal Boys?" Ron seethed when Harry started, falteringly, to explain about his Aunt Marge. "What are they playing at? Merlin, Harry, why didn't you tell someone how awful they really are? I mean, I always knew they were a bunch of louts, especially that fat lummox of a cousin—"

"Because it doesn't matter," Harry snapped hotly. "It's just how it is. I need to stay there because of the blood wards, and it's never been pleasant, but it's not that bad either."

"Harry, they lie about you and pretend you don't exist!" Hermione cried. "That's textbook neglect and emotional abuse—"

Harry squirmed uncomfortably and stood up from his seat. "It really doesn't matter. Honestly, I'm only there for a few months out of the year. And complaining about it now isn't going to change the past, and I'm old enough now to cope with it."

"But you weren't old enough then…. They locked you in a cupboard?"

Harry sighed. He didn't want to talk about this—not in detail. He was more interested in figuring out how to deal with Snape, now that the man had enough personal information to land some really low blows. He could see his future in his mind; Trelawney would have been proud.

 _Ingredients are in the cupboard—and Potter, don't even think about moving in. This is not your relatives' home._

 _Now, Potter, if you could just do us all a favor and pretend not to exist…. I know you had plenty of practice at home, so it shouldn't be too difficult, and it would be a nice reprieve for everyone…._

 _Chin up, Potter. When you fail your O.W.L.s, at least your relatives have a contingency plan. And in all honesty, St. Brutus' is likely a sounder choice for you than Hogwarts ever was._

He hated the man. Loathed him with every inch of his being.

"You should tell Dumbledore," Hermione continued. "He never would have left you there if he knew—"

"Yes he would have!" Harry cried, losing it. "He had to keep me alive, and the blood wards were the surest way of doing that. And besides, it's nothing. Plenty of people have had it worse—"

"God, that's not the point," Hermione cut him off, fuming. "If I'd known—"

"You didn't. And I can't talk about this right now. I have bigger—"

Hermione shot him a withering look that had Harry backtracking.

"More immediate problems," he amended.

"I'm having Fred and George send them a special package tomorrow morning," Ron muttered. "With lots of special candies for that cousin of yours—"

"He already almost had his soul sucked out by Dementors," Harry muttered, "and I don't think the Ministry will look to kindly on any more incidents at Privet Drive. Really, they're not worth the effort. Two more years and I'll be of age. And I have Sirius now—"

"Yes, so talk to him about all this!" Hermione cried, clearly still distressed. "Don't you have enough to deal with?" She pushed herself to her feet and suddenly enveloped Harry in a tight hug.

Harry relaxed into it, realizing that he was dangerously close to tears. He wasn't in this alone. He didn't have to try to shoulder this burden himself.

"Well… Voldemort's just seemed like the bigger issue. You know, him being resurrected seemed like a bigger deal than my aunt and uncle being such gits…."

"You're important too, Harry," Hermione whispered to him, squeezing him harder. "All this… it only seems insignificant because you've had to save the wizarding world again and again ever since you learned you were a wizard. You really need to talk about how terrible they were—"

"I will," Harry mumbled, "but—"

"Swear it," Hermione commanded, pushing back from him to level a fearsome glare at him. "Swear it on your magic. Promise you'll talk to Ron and me, or Sirius, or Dumbledore—"

"I already talked to Snape," Harry joked weakly. "Doesn't that count?"

"Snape's barely human," Ron replied, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder, "so no, I'd say he doesn't count."

Harry flashed a tiny smile at his friend.

"Really, mate," Ron continued, his tone growing serious again, "how they treated you… how they _treat_ you…. It's not right. You know that, don't' you?"

"Yeah," Harry croaked. "I will talk about it." He tore his watery gaze back to Hermione. "I swear it, 'Mione. On my magic and all, okay?"

She stared at him for a moment longer, before nodding her head sharply.

"But right now," Harry continued, making his way back to his chair, "I need to figure out what to do about this… this big mess I've made." He heaved a sigh.

Ron and Hermione sat back down too. Hermione had a faraway look in her eyes, and Harry could practically hear the gears turning in her mind.

"It was accidental magic," Ron said after a while, his tone helpful. "They can't really blame you—"

"I'm fifteen, Ron," Harry grumbled. "Not five. I should've controlled my temper. And even if Dumbledore sees it that way, Snape won't. And Snape's going to be the one I have to convince, considering he's the one giving me lessons. Dumbledore can't force him to actually teach me, even if he makes us sit in a room together every night. Snape'll just keep digging through my mind, looking for humiliating memories…. No, I'm going to have to really apologize."

"And offer him your firstborn child," Ron added, deadpan.

"That's not helpful, Ronald," Hermione frowned. "But… he's kind of right. It's not fair at all, but it's like you said. You need Snape—and not a grudging Snape, either. You need him willing, otherwise…."

"Otherwise I'll never learn to shut Voldemort out. And I'll keep having visions… and everyone'll be in danger. I'll be a liability. So yeah, I've already figured it out. I'll probably have to get down on my knees and beg and make a complete fool of myself. And I'll have to agree to a thousand hours of scrubbing cauldrons and pickling newt eyes and whatever else he dreams up. Oh, and he'll probably want my broom for kindling, and a thousand points from Gryffindor for good measure…."

"You'll probably have to agree to Filch stringing you up in the dungeon and flogging you for a few nights," Ron continued thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "No more than a week, though, I'd guess. Even Snape's not that cruel. Probably."

"Ugh," Harry moaned, burying his face again. "I don't know how I'm going to do this. I'm going to melt right through the floor the second I see him. And then he's going to light into me, and I won't be able to get a word in edgewise. And knowing me, I'll probably blow up again…."

"You've got to have a little more faith in yourself," Ron told him.

"Ron's right," Hermione agreed, a small, encouraging smile on her lips. "I think you just need a little… practice."

Harry peered through his fingers at her, puzzled. "Practice?"

Ron's eyes fell on something behind him. He snorted. "Bloody brilliant… I love this room."

Harry twisted around, dropping his hands, to find that the Room had produced a kind of cloak rack, hung with several dark, billowing things. A bemused smile spread across his lips. "No way…."

Hermione leapt up to examine the thing that had appeared. She plucked one of the cloaks down, only to find it was a set of dark, billowing teaching robes—the kind Snape preferred. She grinned impishly. "See, even the Room thinks you just need some practice."

Ron shoved himself to his feet. "Me first," he declared, rushing over to the rack and pulling the robes on. He drew himself up to his full height and assumed a disdainful air, wrinkling his nose and folding his arms behind his back. "Now I just need a little grease to do the hair properly—"

"Oh, hush, Ron," Hermione interrupted, her cheeks reddening. "There're plenty of better things to criticize…."

"Miss Granger, fifty points from Gryffindor for insinuating that my personal hygiene isn't offensive," Ron declared haughtily, stalking back to the fire in a passable imitation of Snape's gait. "Ooh, these do billow nicely… I can see why the giant bat wears them all the time." Ron turned to face Harry, screwing his face back up. He cleared his throat and drawled, "Mr. Potter. You had something to say to me?"

Harry had to fight to keep from laughing. "Uh—yeah. I'm—uh—I'm sorry about yelling at you—"

"Quite alright, Mr. Potter," Ron-as-Snape declared. "I'm rather dense, and I'd guess that screaming at me was the only way to get your message across."

Harry snorted. "Well, while we're at it, I'm sorry I was born, I'm sorry I look like my father, I'm sorry I'm in Gryffindor…." He ticked offenses off on his fingers. "I'm sorry that arsehole Voldemort can somehow get into my head. I'm sorry Hermione's so brilliant that it threatens you, so you lash out with ridiculous insults…."

Hermione flashed him a bright smile.

"And I'm sorry you're a miserable old bastard with no one and nothing to live for. There. Feels good to get that off my chest."

"Well, Mr. Potter," Ron-as-Snape declared, "seeing as you are so sincere in your, er, apology, I guess I have no choice but to forgive you. Why don't you come down for tea and biscuits?"

Hermione burst into fits of giggles, and Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Ron's antics.

"Spot on," Harry applauded, just as Ron took a bow.

"See, Harry, nothing to worry about," Ron declared as he shrugged out of the robes. "Though you might want to run that through with Hermione a few more times. You know, just to be safe."

Harry sobered a little. "I really do need to practice, or I'm just going to end up making a bigger fool of myself. So… Hermione, would you?"

The initial silliness seemed to die down after that. Hermione slipped into a set of black robes and went to consult with Ron, who offered to give her "stage directions". After they discussed things for a good fifteen minutes, Hermione settled back into her armchair, sitting rather primly with her back arched.

Harry drew a bracing breath and turned himself to face Hermione. "I need you to be as mean as possible, so don't hold anything back," he warned.

"Don't worry, Potter, I don't intend to," Hermione replied darkly, mimicking Snape's sardonic drawl.

Harry smirked.

"Wipe that stupid look off your face," Hermione-as-Snape snapped. "You're wasting my time, Potter. Spit it out."

All in all, it turned out that Hermione was dab hand at imitating Snape. And she kept her promise to be hard on Harry.

"Sir, I wanted to apologize for the other night," Harry began, choosing to stare at the floor. He tried to imagine Snape's sallow face and his deep baritone.

"I hardly see the point," Hermione-as-Snape sniffed. "Your behavior was crass and inexcusable."

"I know, but hear me out. I shouldn't have lost my temper, but—"

"No, Potter, no 'but'. You assaulted me, you yelled in my face, and then you _ran away_ instead of owning up to your pathetic behavior."

Ron sucked his breath in sharply. Harry winced. Hermione was almost _too_ good at this.

"Geez, lay off him," Ron muttered.

"This doesn't concern you, Weasley," Hermione-as-Snape growled.

"Sorry, _sir_ ," Ron grumbled.

Harry tried to gather his thoughts. It was good that Hermione was throwing all this at him now, he thought. It would be a million times worse having to face it down from Snape. "I'm sorry, sir, I just panicked," he tried. "I just felt too upset to even try to say anything, and I thought it would be better to go and cool off."

Hermione-as-Snape snorted derisively. "A likely story. You were hiding from the consequences of your actions, as usual—"

"Damn, Hermione," Ron exclaimed, "really—"

"If you interrupt again, Weasley, it will be detention," Hermione warned sternly, though her mouth broke into a playful grin as she delivered the rebuke. She quickly fought it down, though, and returned her glare to Harry. "Well?"

Harry took a deep breath. "No, sir, I'm fully prepared to accept the consequences of my actions."

"That was good," Ron remarked. "Someone should be writing…." Ron trailed off. Harry followed the redhead's gaze, which had fallen on a stack of parchment and a quill that had appeared on the little table between the armchairs. "Hang on, gimme a second here….."

A minute later Ron had started scratching down notes. Harry continued to flounder his way through his apology.

Hermione had to think for a moment after that interruption. Finally she remembered her place. "Are you? Does the Famous Harry Potter even realize what he's done wrong?"

"I shouldn't have lost control like that. I shouldn't have trapped you and silenced you. You—you were right. I have to learn to control my emotions. And I shouldn't have said those things."

"What things?" Hermione-as-Snape prompted, though Hermione had dropped the edge, and now she just sounded like she was trying to give him a helpful hint.

"Er… let's see. I, uh, I shouldn't have called you lazy and arrogant. And I shouldn't have said that you were an awful teacher. That was out of line. And… hmm…. Probably shouldn't have called you a miserable bastard, either. Oh, and I shouldn't have whined on and on about my life and all. I _do_ give a damn about what you think, and I _do_ need your help, because I can't teach myself. So… I really hope you can take me back as a student. And I promise that nothing like this will ever happen again, and that I'll be perfectly respectful from here on out."

Hermione leaned back, thoughtful. "Hmm… not bad, for a start. I think this is something we can work with. You should probably get into specifics—you know, the more you apologize for, the more it'll be apparent that you've thought this through and really regret how things played out. You'll probably have to notch up the self-flagellation, too…."

Ron and Harry exchanged a puzzled glance.

"You'll have to call yourself stupid and reckless and all," she clarified. "You know, beat up on yourself."

"Oh, yeah," Harry agreed readily. "Snape'll like that."

"Just don't lay it on too thick," Ron advised, setting the quill down. "Snape'll probably smell insincerity from a mile away, and then he'll start right back in with the whole 'Potter is so bloody arrogant' spiel."

Harry sighed. "Well… I do actually feel bad. I mean, Snape was awful, but I know I shouldn't have blown up like that."

"Right. So we'll just work with that," Hermione stated confidently. "Now, let's go again."

Hermione drew herself up stiffly again. Ron picked up his quill. And they were off.

XXXXX

Snape emerged from the Pensieve, his breathing slightly harsh from all the emotion in the scene he'd just watched again. Beside him, Dumbledore shuffled back a few steps, his weathered face inscrutable.

Without waiting for an invitation, Severus paced over to the chairs before the headmaster's desk and slumped into one. He raised his fingers to his temples and began massaging, trying to alleviate the throbbing sensation that had started up there.

When he'd arrived in the headmaster's office to explain Potter's fit, he hadn't even remotely expected that the headmaster would demand to view the scene himself. In fact, Snape had counted on giving a cool, detailed account of Potter's words before bringing up the matter of discipline. As soon as he'd mentioned that the boy had loosed accidental magic—the kind powerful enough to render Severus helpless—Dumbledore had declared that they would both review the incident in his Pensieve.

Of course, the implication that hung in the air was that Severus had done something unforgivable to push the precious Potter to such an extreme. Not that Dumbledore would ever say as much. But Snape was used to reading between the lines when it came to the headmaster.

Watching and listening to Potter's rant a second time, this time more or less as a bystander, was not as easy or as gratifying as he might have thought. Unfortunately, without the blind rage to adulterate the boy's words, it was fairly apparent that, with the exception of a handful of comments, the boy's critiques were not baseless, or delivered in an excessively disrespectful manner. Oh, the boy was certainly upset, and his language was a bit coarse at times, but much better than it could have been.

Even more unfortunately, the memory he drew from his mind began shortly before he called James Potter a swine. And he knew he didn't have a prayer of defending the sheer venom he spewed at the boy there, especially not to Albus Dumbledore. And as he stood beside the old man in the Pensieve—his mentor, he reminded himself bitterly, the one man he'd ever truly admired—he felt as if he were two inches tall. He was humiliated at his own conduct.

If only Potter had called him a greasy bastard or any of the other nasty names students liked to whisper behind his back. But no, the boy had babbled about his less-than-ideal childhood and a nasty relative, he'd thrown Severus' critiques back in his face, and he'd made a few valid points about how ineffective his teaching had been. Apart from the accidental magic and his raised voice, it was nothing so inexcusable.

Because yes, even Severus could admit that the boy was under a lot of pressure and was bound to explode at some point.

Infuriatingly, Dumbledore had said nothing as he watched the whole thing unfold beside Snape. Even his face had been entirely placid, his eyes completely neutral, as he took everything in. If he had just sighed in disappointment, or glanced over at Snape reprovingly, anything…. Waiting for the man to pass judgment was agony.

Snape glanced up wearily as Dumbledore ambled back over to his chair behind his desk.

Once he'd settled comfortably into the high-backed chair, he spoke. "You should not have provoked him so," Dumbledore said, his voice quiet and still utterly neutral.

"No," Snape agreed, his eyes wandering over to the instruments lining Dumbledore's shelves. After so many years he was intimately acquainted with the configuration of the headmaster's office; so now, to distract himself from the emotions roiling in his stomach, he began listing their names in his head.

"It also seems to me," Dumbledore continued, still using that curiously gentle tone he liked to take sometimes, "that Harry's accidental magic—the force you describe as having held you prisoner—is closely linked to a desire to be heard. Would I be correct in assuming that lines of communication between the two of you have been somewhat… restricted… during these exercises?"

Snape gritted his teeth. He gave a curt nod, still not meeting the man's eye.

"It is rather remarkable that young Harry appears not to have damaged a single item in your office. Much to your immense relief, I'm certain; I know how valuable your collection is."

"Yes," he growled. "Remarkable."

Dumbledore sighed and waved his hand, summoning a porcelain teapot decorated with pink and purple sugar pea blossoms, and along with it two delicate white cups with gilt handles. He poured them both full of steaming tea, and passed one across the desk to Severus.

Snape let it sit there. He was not about to sip tea for a few silent moments while the headmaster lost himself in thought. He respected the man immensely, but he had very little patience for these games the man liked to play. There was no reason to stretch this out any longer than necessary.

"Attacking a teacher, under any circumstances, is unacceptable," Dumbledore said at last. "You've every reason to lodge a complaint. Harry could have seriously injured you or himself." He lifted his teacup back to his lips.

Snape could hear the caveat before the older wizard even lowered his cup again.

"However, Severus, it seems to me that young Harry has a few complaints that could be addressed, however inelegantly he has worded them. These comparisons to his father, for example. I know the boy bears a striking resemblance to James, but it seems to be a rather touchy subject for the both of you. Perhaps in the future you could refrain from bringing the man up."

Diplomatic as ever, Snape thought bitterly. No blunt, "Severus, stop bringing up the boy's dead father and insulting the two of them." No, Dumbledore was always decorous, even when delivering rebukes.

Severus dipped his head in acknowledgment.

"I know I have already imposed on you in requesting you give these lessons," Dumbledore continued peaceably, his blue eyes solemn. "But I would also ask that you change tack with Harry and see if another method of instruction is more… fruitful. It is in all of our interest that Harry learn to shield his mind as quickly as possible, and so any efforts you could make toward that end would be most appreciated."

Yes, Severus certainly felt like a chastised teen receiving a gentle lecture from his grandfather. He tried to keep his composure and dignity, but it was difficult to maintain his poise while being scolded.

He swallowed. Nods and monosyllabic answers were not becoming of him, he knew. He would not tolerate it in his students, and he would hold himself to a higher standard now. "I will see what can be arranged," he replied faintly.

"Excellent. I will have a word with Harry as well, and perhaps we can all reconvene tomorrow in order to straighten out the details of this little mishap. I trust you believe that we can, indeed, work past this and continue with Harry's Occlumency lessons?"

Phrased so reasonably, Snape thought, it was nearly impossible to refuse. Still, Snape couldn't help but stir the cauldron; his bruised ego demanded it. "There is the matter of the boy's disrespect—"

"I will speak to Harry about that as well. Though the Quaffle goes both ways, as they say."

Snape's nostrils flared and his lips pressed into a thin line. "I will take it under advisement," he replied tightly. "Though I have to insist that the boy be punished—"

"Certainly," Dumbledore agreed breezily. "We can determine consequences after we've had it all out. And I am certain you will be judicious in determining what is an appropriate chastisement for Harry's behavior."

Snape bristled at the subtle accusation buried in those words. "Sometimes a firm hand is needed, Headmaster," Snape defended himself quietly.

"Yes, quite," Dumbledore nodded, his tone just as light. "Firm, but not cruel. A fine line to walk, a fine line indeed." The headmaster stood and made his way over to the fireplace. "I will speak to Harry tomorrow, at his earliest convenience. I think a quiet night of reflection will do him good."

Snape snorted softly to himself.

Dumbledore threw a pinch of floo powder into the hearth and called, "Minerva?"

A moment later the Transfiguration professor replied. "Yes, Albus?"

"Would you know if young Harry has returned to his dormitory?"

"A moment."

Snape and Dumbledore waited in perfect silence for a few minutes before the witch returned; this time her head emerged in the fireplace, wreathed in green flames.

Her expression was drawn, her mouth slightly pursed. "The boy's bed is empty—as are Granger's and Weasley's. I'm told the boy made a brief appearance an hour ago before dashing straight back out. What is going on, Albus?"

Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Ah. Yes, I remember the Common Room always tended to be so crowded, and full of prying eyes," the headmaster mused to himself. Then he continued aloud, "Minnie, my dear, there is no cause for alarm. Harry has had an eventful evening and likely is in need of privacy this evening, as well as the support of his friends. I trust his discretion."

Minerva's brow furrowed. "If he does not return by curfew—"

"Minerva, I believe we have all found ourselves spending a quiet night elsewhere in the castle in our youth. I do not begrudge Harry his privacy at the moment. If he does not turn up by breakfast, then I think it will be appropriate to conduct a search."

Snape could tell that McGonagall did not entirely agree with the headmaster's assessment of the situation, but she appeared to be deferring to his judgment.

"If you are certain," she conceded, her eyes flashing. "If that was all?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Minerva."

"Goodnight," she returned, and the fire disappeared.

"The boy could be anywhere on the grounds," Severus burst out the instant she disappeared. "He runs amuck as if he's never heard the word 'forbidden' or 'out-of-bounds'. For all we know he's out frolicking with the werewolves in the forest—"

"I doubt that, Severus," Dumbledore replied evenly. "I've an idea of where Harry is, and I've no intention of disturbing him. As I said, one night away from his bed is hardly the worst offense one can commit."

"If the daft boy's done something drastic, like snuck into Hogsmeade, the Dark Lord—"

"I've every faith in Harry," Dumbledore cut the Potions Master off. "You are welcome to look for him, of course, if you are truly concerned."

Snape ground his teeth but did not press the matter further. Let Potter dig himself a deeper grave, he decided.

He forced himself to draw a deep breath. "Was there anything else you needed, headmaster?"

Dumbledore seemed to age decades in just seconds. His whole posture slumped slightly, and his blue eyes suddenly seemed haunted by pain. "Yes…." He returned to his seat, and this time his bright eyes did not pierce Severus, but rather gazed at the wall, looking far beyond the confines of the office. "Normally, I would not ask, given the nature of the subject, but some of the things that Harry has told you have greatly perturbed me, and I must know…."

Snape's gut clenched. He did not know where this was going, but it could not be good, he thought. "What is it?" he demanded quietly.

Dumbledore sighed and closed his eyes lightly. "You must understand first that Petunia did not want to take the boy in. She was dead-set against it, even; she knew he had no other family and that he would be sent to an orphanage. I convinced her that he was in grave danger, and that he needed the protection of the blood wards—you know of these, of Lily's sacrifice…. It was under that pretext, that refusing the boy was tantamount to throwing him to the wolves, that she finally accepted.

Severus could tell that this was quickly becoming Famous Harry Potter's sob backstory, and he had no desire to hear any more, because he already had a feeling for where things were going. But he was not about to be so childish as to walk out on Dumbledore, so he sat rigidly, his jaw aching from tension, as he forced himself to remain silent.

"Knowing this, I assumed that Harry would have a… a difficult childhood. I knew that his relatives would never love him as their own, but I assumed that they would shelter him and nurture him and come to care for him in their own way. They are rather repulsed by magic, and they were averse to having visitors from our world, so I never had a chance to check…. But I cannot in good conscience neglect my responsibility now.

"So I must ask, Severus, during your lessons with Harry, did you catch glimpses of this… this cupboard he was purportedly shut in? Did you see the level of neglect he claims?"

"Glimpses, yes," Severus murmured. "Though it is possible that it is a gross exaggeration—"

"Harry has many faults, Severus, but he does not lie. He does not fabricate." Dumbledore's words were no longer gentle. They were steel, entirely implacable.

Snape dipped his head solemnly to show he understood.

Dumbledore was nodding to himself. He laced his hands together and leaned forward slightly, his eyes on his desk before him, seemingly lost in thought.

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore murmured at last, his words absent. It was a clear dismissal.

Snape cleared his throat lightly. "Is everything alright?"

Dumbledore waved a hand lazily at him, as if shooing him away. "Go on, Severus. I shouldn't keep you, and I have… matters to see to."

"Matters?" Snape pressed. He could not help it. He had rarely seen Albus Dumbledore so… discombobulated. It was rather alarming.

"Nothing concerning you." Dumbledore pushed himself to his feet and ambled back over to the floo. Another pinch and he was calling McGonagall yet again. "Minerva?"

"Albus?" she responded, a note of worry in her voice. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine, Minerva, fine. I just have an unexpected errand to run. You can see to the school for a few hours?"

"Certainly," Minerva replied, though her tone was anything but. "Is it the Ministry?"

"Personal business, I'm afraid," Dumbledore replied evasively. "Must be seen to tonight."

"Of course," Minerva murmured. "I'll inform the Heads of House that you'll be away. Where can you be reached?"

"Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," Dumbledore replied swiftly. "You have my gratitude, Minerva."

The witch nodded briskly in the fireplace. "I am only doing my duty. Call again when you return?"

"Of course."

The green fire faded once again.

Dumbledore turned back slightly to Severus, who was lingering awkwardly at the back of his previously-occupied chair. The headmaster seemed surprised to see that Snape had not yet left. "Severus, my boy, it's been a long night. You should get some rest."

Snape did not budge. "Surrey?" he questioned. "What personal business could you possibly have in Surrey?"

Dumbledore heaved an agitated sigh. "I've a mind to pay Harry's aunt and uncle a visit. As I said, it is a personal matter, nothing to concern yourself over."

"Surely the boy would have said something by now if things had been serious," Snape protested. But the words felt foolish and clumsy on his lips. He knew better, he of all people.

Dumbledore cast him a withering glare, one that Snape knew was well-deserved. "Harry does not like to complain, whatever you may think of him." Dumbledore paused, his gaze drifting back to the fire. "I ask that you mention this to no one."

Snape wanted to cry out in indignation at that ridiculous request. As if he were so immature as to go shouting such personal business through the corridors…. He felt a flush color his cheeks. But instead of shouting angrily at the man, he replied, perhaps a touch frostily, "Of course not, headmaster."

Dumbledore nodded once, mostly to himself. Then he took another pinch of floo powder, called out, "Arabella Figg's house!" and vanished in a flash of green.


	2. Chapter 2

**Not His Father—Chapter Two**

 **Mulligan**

Severus fought against the urge to rub his eyes as he sat with his coffee at his own table. It had been a particularly fitful night for the Potions Master; the Headmaster's visit to Surrey had weighed heavily on his mind, as had the genuine concern he'd seen in those grave, ancient eyes.

He couldn't stop thinking about what Potter had told him, much as he tried. It was shameful, considering the amount of discipline he exercised over his thoughts as an Occlumens. But there was something about Potter's outrage, and the pain the boy had worn so plainly on his face as he'd compared Snape to his relatives.

 _So Potter didn't have a perfect childhood_ , he tried to tell himself. _So what? He is still arrogant, entitled, lazy… the boy attacked me and ran!_

But his own arguments were unconvincing, because he was not stupid enough to deny the burden resting on the boy's shoulders. And if he had no supportive family behind him—hell, even a moderately tolerable family rather than that pack of offending Muggles—well, that would make the burden all the heavier, wouldn't it? And it was not as if Albus had ever been particularly hands-on, nor Minerva, for all she purportedly cared for the boy. The werewolf, too, had been notably absent in the boy's life following being ousted from his Defense post.

That left the boy's deranged imbecilic dogfather, whose mind and stability had been ravaged by thirteen years of exposure to Dementors. The man's insufferable personality and presence aside, Black was objectively in no condition to support the boy, except perhaps as a periphery figure.

Well, Potter still had his mindless lemmings—less so now that the Ministry and the Daily Prophet had turned against him. Still, he had at least a few half-witted adolescents who would tolerate his whining and carrying on.

But it was not much. Not nearly enough for the Savior of the Wizarding World, who'd already squared off with dark wizards too many times to count.

Severus tried, over and over as he tossed and turned, to remind himself that he did not care in the least. As long as the little twit was alive and relatively unharmed, he had done his duty. And he intended to continue to do that duty. Hell, he would even continue the cretin's Occlumency lessons—though he expected a full apology for the boy's atrocious behavior.

And yet, he realized bitterly sometime around three in the morning, for a man who vehemently denied caring about the boy, he found his conscience abnormally burdened by Potter's revelations. They echoed endlessly in his mind, direct refutations of everything he'd ever assumed about the Boy Who Lived. _Cuffed upside the head anytime the neighbors got a whiff of my existence… lived in a bloody cupboard under the stairs… the m-word got me locked up without meals…._ Those revelations bothered him more than the boy's stinging criticisms of Snape himself.

It couldn't be true, he thought to himself. Dumbledore never would have allowed… but the man had admitted to his negligence, had he not? Yes, the great Albus Brian Percival Wulfric Dumbledore, Order of Merlin First Class, and Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamot, was as human as the rest of them, and was just as prone to error. And of course, Snape had been eagerly and remorselessly rubbing salt into the wounds Potter carried from Albus' recently uncovered shortcoming.

Snape sighed and tipped back the last dregs of his coffee before rising to his feet. He glanced at the clock on his mantel once more. Six thirty. The man should be up by now.

He stepped over to the fireplace, and, throwing down a pinch of Floo powder, calmly called, "Headmaster's office". Seconds later he was stepping back into the familiar space, his eyes darting around the room. After so many years of working under the man, Severus was only too aware of the man's rather fixed routine. The Headmaster tended to work the early morning hours at his desk, answer correspondence, sending out letters of his own, occasionally indulging in a Transfiguration journal as he waited for breakfast hour in the Great Hall to roll around.

But the office was empty, save for Fawkes—a tiny little fledgling just beginning to grow feathers today. The phoenix shifted restlessly on his perch, his piercing eyes fixed on Snape. Snape found himself unable to meet the bird's stare for some reason and ended up redirecting his gaze to the numerous dozing portraits of former headmasters.

He did not know where Albus could possibly be. It was unlike the many to meander off, especially these days. The events of the past two years had put the Headmaster on edge, and other shortcomings aside, the man was usually far more vigilant about abandoning his post for long periods of time.

Snape waited for a good half an hour, bored out of his skull but too sensible to poke his nose into Dumbledore's personal effects, and far too anxious to do something as simple as borrow a book to pass the time. Several times he considered simply leaving and questioning Dumbledore at a later time, but each time he found that he could not bring himself to leave, for fear that the next second the Headmaster would burst through the floo.

Snape had finally mustered the willpower to push himself to his feet when he heard the telltale roar of the fireplace behind him. He turned slightly, in time to catch the headmaster's bowed, worn frame stepping back into the office.

The man wore the same robes he'd sported the previous night. And he looked bone-weary.

His tired expression barely changed when it alighted on the potions master. "Severus. An early hour for a visit, my boy. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Severus stifled the concerned question that nearly rose to his lips. He knew that Dumbledore would not give him a straight answer if Severus inquired about his health, and that would just frustrate and infuriate Snape. And with his current state of agitation, not to mention his own lack of sleep, Snape had no doubt the whole thing would devolve into an ugly yelling match.

Well, maybe not a match, so much as Severus bellowing at the headmaster while the elder wizard placidly stared him down.

Instead, he demanded rather bluntly, "What did you find out from the boy's relatives?"

Albus blinked once, twice, then shook his head slowly to himself before beginning to amble his way over to his desk. "The matter has been dealt with, Severus. There is no cause for concern; I will handle things from here."

Severus could not help the incredulous scoff that escaped his lips. "Like you handled the boy's first placement? I vowed to protect him, Albus, and our mutual loathing aside, I take that duty very seriously. He will not be returning to his aunt's home, I presume?"

For half an instant Dumbledore's expression tightened slightly, and Snape wondered if the sweet-tempered, peaceful wizard was about to snap at him in a way he'd rarely, if ever, done.

But then the storm passed, and Dumbledore simply looked weary again, and so very old, shriveled like a raisin left to the mercy of a lifetime of harsh sunlight. "No," Dumbledore murmured, "he will not return."

"You punished them as well?" Snape pressed, trying to make sense of the headmaster's prolonged absence. "What I saw in the boy's mind was deplorable, Albus, and if _I_ am willing to say that—"

"They have been punished, yes," the headmaster reassured him, even as his gaze drifted away from Severus. "After a fashion. I was in something of a hurry, though, and spent very little time with them."

Severus arched a disbelieving brow. "A hurry? And you've just now gotten back? What were you possibly—"

"Enough, Severus." Dumbledore's words were suddenly uncharacteristically sharp. "You are not my keeper, and my affairs are not always yours to question." Dumbledore's shoulders rose and fell with the force of the bracing breath he drew. "If you simply must know, however, I was busy paying visits to several of my contacts on the Continent, all of whom have some expert knowledge on blood magic, sacrificial magic, and warding. Seeing as Harry will no longer be staying with his aunt, Lily's protection will be null and void unless we can find some way to transfer or modify the wards. I'd planned to ask our staff members to contribute to research on the matter as well, as it is imperative that we find a solution to this problem as quickly as possible."

"I apologize," Severus mumbled. "I merely wished…."

"You have expressed clear distaste for Harry's affairs," Dumbledore stated bluntly. "You need not involve yourself in this; the boy's home life is my responsibility, not yours. Now, if there was nothing else…."

"Did Potter return to his dorm last night?" Snape demanded, unwilling to be herded out just yet. He did not even know what in the hell he'd hoped to achieve by coming here. To assuage the guilt, he thought. But there was a part of him that just had to know, that could not settle properly without knowing that someone was looking into the boy's home situation.

"As I have just returned myself and have yet to speak to Minerva, I would not know. Perhaps you could floo her yourself if you are so very concerned?"

The headmaster's curt tone caught Severus off guard. Well, he thought, he was acting rather… imperiously. He'd deserved the rebuke embedded into those words. It was just that—well, he was on edge. And he knew why; he was worried. About _Potter_. Oh, he wished he could lie to himself, tell himself that he just didn't want their special prophesy-approved weapon slipping and drowning in the lake or camping out in the Forbidden Forest on a whim.

No. The brazen, ill-mannered, temperamental little brat was many things, but he was also a child, and on some primal level Snape worried about the boy hurting or suffering alone all night.

Working to moderate his tone, and perhaps appear a bit more deferential, Snape suggested, "Perhaps I could call her so that we might both be assured of his whereabouts?"

He was already striding over to the fireplace, working out the easiest way to phrase his inquiry to the Head of Gryffindor, before Albus could get a chance to respond.

The whole request for permission was rendered moot in the next instant, however, as a rather disheveled and distraught Potter came barreling into the office.

"Harry!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "Is everything all right?"

Snape remained silent, and likely unnoticed as well. He was, after all, positioned unobtrusively in the corner, and Potter seemed to have eyes only for Dumbledore. Well, he thought, this might be interesting. He fought the urge to cast a quick Disillusionment Spell.

"No," Harry wheezed breathlessly, practically throwing himself into one of the seats before Dumbledore's desk. "I—I guess McGonagall is pretty mad that we never showed up last night. And… and you too. I didn't mean to worry anyone, honest, it's just…."

"Harry, Harry," the headmaster soothed him, gentility and tenderness flooding back into his countenance. "We learned of your absence last night, and I managed to allay her concerns. I understand that it was a rather difficult night for both you and Professor Snape, and I thought that a one-time exception might be made for your decision to sleep outside of your dorm. I must, however, stress that this was, indeed, a _one-time_ exception. Now, I assume you did not come here merely to reassure me that you and Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley are all hale and hearty still?"

The boy swallowed thickly. "No, sir," he rasped. Then he suddenly launched himself out of the chair and began pacing furiously before Dumbledore's desk, his energy speaking of great agitation. "I really messed up, Professor. I'm so sorry. I'm sure you've already heard all about it by now…."

"Professor Snape visited me last night, yes," Dumbledore acknowledged, though to Severus' surprise, the headmaster made no move to draw attention to the potions master's presence in the office. "I will tell you, Harry, that I requested to see Professor Snape's memory of the incident, as such a powerful outburst of accidental magic is unusual and, of course potentially dangerous."

Harry stopped in his tracks and buried his face in his hands, clearly beyond distraught. "I'm so sorry," the boy rasped, his words trembling. "I—I just lost control. There was just this… this _fury_ …."

"There is a reason we term in 'accidental magic', my boy," Dumbledore reassured him, sounding very much as if he were trying to calm a wounded animal.

"Yeah, but I'm too old—"

"We are never too old," Dumbledore murmured sorrowfully, "to allow our emotions to get the better of us. I am quite heartened, however, to learn that you did no permanent damage, either to Professor Snape's personal effects or his person."

Harry loosed a bitter, strangled laugh. "I'm sure he saw it that way," he muttered.

Severus had to bite his tongue to refrain from commenting. Trust Potter to believe that he had everyone figured out, the arrogant little whelp….

"Professor Snape was rather concerned when you disappeared," Dumbledore continued, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "He was prepared to conduct a search of the castle, I believe, until I allayed his fears."

Potter shook his head, but it wasn't clear if the gesture was disbelieving, or merely an indication of how overwhelmed the adolescent was. "Well, after all that, I don't think he's going to be too keen on teaching me Occlumency, sir. And I can't afford to stop learning, not with Voldemort using my mind like a holiday home. So—I know he probably wants nothing to do with me, but maybe you could convince him to at least hear me out?"

Sensing it was time to announce his presence, Severus commented smoothly, "There is no reason to recruit the headmaster as your go-between, Potter; I am all ears."

It was perhaps just a little too gratifying to see the boy nearly leap out of his skin. He whipped around, nearly tumbling onto Dumbledore's desk in the process.

Severus took a moment to enjoy the boy's ashen expression; yes, mortification was written in every line of the brat's face. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps Potter _was_ capable of appreciating how truly atrocious his behavior had been.

"Well?" Severus snapped after a few silent moments. "Did you have something to say, or do you plan on gaping like an imbecile for the rest of the morning?"

Potter snapped his mouth shut and drew himself up straight. His chest expanded and collapsed with two deep breaths before the boy began. "Professor, I am so very sorry for my behavior last night. It was entirely inexcusable, and I am fully prepared to accept the consequences of my actions."

Severus arched a brow, hoping that he came across more as incredulous, even scathing, than impressed. Because, yes, he had to concede that the boy's genuinely contrite words came as a pleasant shock.

Potter cast a nervous glance up at Snape before dropping his eyes to his shoes. "First of all, I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. It was stupid of me, especially considering that the whole basis of what you've been trying to teach me is to not let my emotions get the better of me. I gave in to my anger and my frustration, and I could have caused serious damage."

Snape opened his mouth to offer a handful of scathing comments, followed by a grudging acceptance of the boy's apology—because, really, it had been thorough and sincere, and there was no way he could simply dismiss the boy in front of the headmaster.

But Potter was not finished, it seemed. He pressed on, as if he were reciting a soliloquy, "My comments were out of line, too. I never should have insinuated that you were lazy or arrogant, especially when you're taking time out of your schedule to give me private lessons. Not agreeing with your teaching methods doesn't give me the right to criticize and insult you. Oh—and I should have practiced more, like you said. Not making an effort was disrespectful on my part, and wasted your time."

Severus just blinked. He had a sneaking suspicion that the Headmaster had found an old friend and dosed him with Polyjuice, then staged 'Potter's' unorthodox entrance, all in an effort to get the Golden Boy back into Snape's good books. An elaborate plot if it were true, but he wouldn't put it past Albus Dumbledore.

Because certainly the boy standing meekly before him, reciting a near-perfect, thorough apology to his hated Potions Master, could not be the _real_ Harry James Potter. The boy didn't have a humble bone in his body, let alone a brain to actually contemplate and dissect his poor behavior.

Snape drew a deep breath. No, it was absurd. Maybe Potter had simply come to his senses. And then, Severus had to admit, there was a great deal in the boy's history whose implications he'd yet to examine. A lifetime of emotional abuse and neglect could not have possibly produced the arrogant, undaunted little monster who stormed about Hogwarts as if he owned the place. Perhaps that bravado masked a far more tolerable version of the youth, one capable of remorse and humility.

He would give the boy a chance. After all, Severus knew that he had behaved less than admirably. And Potter's well-being for his own sake aside, they needed the Boy Who Lived to be sane and well-fortified against the Dark Lord's mental intrusions. There was far too much at stake for him to allow pettiness to rule his actions.

"Potter," he began, but the boy had already launched into the next segment of his epic-length apology. Snape fought the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation.

"And I never should have resorted to name-calling," he continued blithely, oblivious to Snape's near-interruption. "That was petty and uncalled for. And the truth is, sir, that I _do_ care for your opinion, because I need your guidance to survive this war. So I promise that, from now on, I'll show you the proper respect, and listen to your instructions, and do everything I can to prepare myself for our lessons, if you'll have me back, so that I'm not wasting your time." Potter drew a final, bracing breath before uttering, "And… and regardless of what you decide, I promise to accept the consequences for my actions without complaint."

And that was the end, it seemed, because Potter tensed up as if waiting for a blow and merely waited.

The seconds ticked by as Snape tried to gather his thoughts. At last, he cleared his throat lightly. "Potter," he began, striving for a level tone, "it occurs to me that if we are to work together—which is vital for everyone's sake, I'm sure you know—we _both_ must make a greater effort if we've any hopes of succeeding."

Potter's green eyes shot up and fixed him with an utterly bewildered stare.

Snape scowled. Did the boy think he was wholly unreasonable? He'd apologized, he'd shown respect, and he'd made no flimsy excuses for his behavior. Did Potter think he was so ridiculously irrational that he would still find some reason to berate and insult him?

Snape stole a glance at Dumbledore, whose expression seemed neutral at a glance, but Snape could detect the underlying smugness. The blasted old man saw a happy reconciliation unfolding before him, and he was basking in it. Senile old fool.

Potter seemed to be waiting on pins and needles, his eyes shifting from bewildered to mistrustful the more he studied Snape.

"I accept your apology."

Potter relaxed marginally, though his carriage still bespoke of wariness. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, then murmured hoarsely, "Thank you, sir." And then he went even more rigid, standing stock still, waiting for something.

Snape had to swallow hard to clear the strange tightness constricting in his own throat. It was those eyes, he concluded. Those damned green eyes, always filled with defiance and loathing. But now there was only wariness and fear. And defiance screamed James Potter, but that wariness…. That was all Lily, and almost ever look she'd cast him after that dreadful incident their fifth year.

Yes, in the moment he'd only seen her anger and betrayal. But after that, she'd looked at him as if he'd transformed into some kind of horrible monster hiding in the skin of her ex-friend. She'd looked at him as if she feared he would strike out at her at any moment.

And Merlin's wand, it bothered him to see that in her son. When he was actively working to strike fear into Potter's heart, certainly something like that look was welcome, a measure of his success and his intimidating stature. But now, when he'd scarcely raised his voice, when he'd yet to level a scathing insult or caustic remark at the brat? When he was being perfectly reasonable?

Snape let a calming breath fill his lungs. Well, he'd already admitted his faults to the headmaster. He would do no such thing before the boy, of course, but he could at least show restraint and fairmindedness now. "We find ourselves in something of an awkward position," he continued, turning his gaze toward the side of the office so that he could inspect the hearth. "I think the best path forward is simply to let the past be the past. A Muggle golf term comes to mind…. I propose we declare a Mulligan and start afresh next week."

Now Potter was eying him as if he'd announced his intentions to propose to Sirius Black. "A—a Mulligan," he repeated faintly.

Snape pressed his lips together more firmly. "Yes, Potter, a Mulligan. A do-over. Perhaps one encompassing the entirety of our relationship would be best."

Potter just blinked owlishly at him from behind those infernal glasses, too many tumultuous emotions tangling in those green irises.

"Well?" Snape snapped impatiently. "Is that amenable, or do you need a few hours of blank staring to come to a decision?"

"Yes." Potter seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. "I—I mean, yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Snape inclined his head slightly.

"Harry," the headmaster began at last. Harry gratefully turned his attention to the headmaster and away from Snape. "There is one more matter we must discuss before I can allow you to leave."

Potter nodded sagely and lowered himself wearily into one of the chairs before Dumbledore's desk. He cast a resigned glance at Snape. "My punishment."

Snape felt his nostrils flare in irritation. Was the boy being purposely daft? "Potter, the whole _point_ of a Mulligan is to wipe the slate entirely clean, including incurred penalties. Is that clear, or do I need to use smaller words, perhaps pictures?"

Potter started his infuriating blinking again. "But—but—"

Severus folded his arms tightly over his chest, trying his best not to appear defensive. It certainly didn't bother him that Potter expected a harsh punishment, did it? "As I said, you were not entirely to blame. As long as there is not a repeat of this, I see no need to waste any more of my evenings overseeing detentions."

The boy looked as though he might be stupid enough to suggest merely docking house points, but he seemed to come to his senses and at last snapped his mouth shut. "I meant what I said, though," he offered feebly, stealing a furtive glance at Snape. "About—about accepting the consequences—"

"I don't doubt it."

The headmaster cleared his throat lightly, drawing Harry's attention back to him. Once again, his features were arranged in a benign smile, though his blue eyes remained unusually grave. "I had hoped to discuss some of the memories Professor Snape uncovered during your sessions," he began.

Snape watched as the boy's features morphed into a look of confusion. "My memories? You mean my visions from Voldemort?"

Snape managed not to flinch at the mention of the name.

"No, Harry," Dumbledore sighed. "I paid a visit to Little Whinging last night, to speak to your relatives about your home life—"

The boy was on his feet and glaring at Severus in a flash, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his brow furrowed deeply in a disgusted scowl. "You had no right to talk about that stuff," he hissed. "Those were private memories—"

"Calm yourself, Potter," Snape commanded coldly, ignoring the prickle of unease radiating through him. "I scarcely betrayed your confidence. I provided my own memory of last night's rant, which was more than revealing. Beyond that, the headmaster merely asked for confirmation that your complaints lined up with what I'd seen in your memories."

"There was no reason—"

"There was every reason," he snarled, losing patience. "Your emotional and physical well-being are not just of importance to you; you are a part of this fight, whether you like it or not, and that means that your care is of interest to all involved parties. Enduring years of abuse—"

"It wasn't abuse," Potter railed, a flush of shame mixing with the heat of anger. "They didn't spoil me, sure, but it's not like they beat me or really starved me—"

"What do you mean, _really starved you_?" Snape cut him off in a deadly, demanding whisper.

Harry averted his gaze to the corner of Dumbledore's desk. "None of your business," he muttered petulantly.

Snape seized the boy by the arm and lowered his face so that they were nose to nose. "On the contrary, Potter, it is my business, as well as the headmaster's. Your well-being is our responsibility. Now answer my question. Were you deprived of meals while in your relatives' care?"

Harry's defiant gaze flashed up to meet him. "Well, I'm so awful I probably deserved it, didn't I, Professor? They probably didn't do enough to beat the arrogance and ungratefulness out of me—"

"Deflection won't work with me, Potter. Answer, before I start detailing for the headmaster scenes from your lovely childhood."

Potter shot him a hate-filled glare before diverting his attention back to the headmaster.

"Harry?" the older wizard prompted gently.

"I missed a few meals sometimes, big deal. It was only when I didn't get my work done."

Severus shook the boy by the arm, careful to only jostle him. "And?"

"Accidental magic," he mumbled. "Or… or when my aunt or uncle were in a bad mood. Or Dudley got me in trouble."

Severus shared a look with Dumbledore. "I take it you've managed to extract the necessary details from the Muggles?" he inquired of the headmaster.

"For now," Dumbledore murmured. "Harry, if I had but known…."

Harry jerked out of Severus' grip; the Potions Master let him. "It's fine. It's done now, and besides, I needed to be there for the blood wards. And I'll be of age in less than two years anyway."

Severus sighed impatiently. "If you are in a home where you are actively suffering abuse, the damage to your psyche—"

"I am not a head case!" Potter cried, fixing Snape with a venomous, defiant glare. "I think I've been holding up fairly well, considering that I've got Voldemort hanging out right here!" He jabbed a finger at his scar.

"No one is implying that you are mentally disturbed, Potter!" Snape fired back. "If you could set aside your arrogance for even a moment—"

"Severus," the headmaster cut in, his tone firm and commanding. "Perhaps this is a discussion best conducted between Harry and myself. It is a private affair, after all, though I am gratified for your assistance, and your magnanimity regarding last night's incident."

Severus stared down the headmaster for a few moments, too aware of the burning glare Potter kept on him. "Potter seems rather reluctant to accept the reality of his situation, headmaster," he observed quietly, searching for the cool, rational tone he knew would serve him best. "As I have been in his mind—"

"You weren't invited," Harry interrupted angrily, "and besides that, my home life is none of your business!"

"Severus," Dumbledore repeated, and this time the edge was unmistakable. "I need to speak with Harry alone."

Severus bristled a bit at the clear dismissal, though he wasn't exactly sure why. Certainly he did not care so much about the boy that he felt he needed to be present for this. If anything relevant were to come to light, Albus would keep him informed. Really, his only concerns would be assisting the headmaster with research or perhaps keeping a closer eye than usual on the brat.

He didn't need to know the details of the boy's home life. He didn't feel upset that the headmaster did not think he should be involved. After all, he didn't like the boy in the least. He should be pleased that he would avoid the chore of hearing Potter unload all of his emotional worries onto Dumbledore.

Still… He spared one final searching glare for the boy before turning on heel and exiting the office. "Monday, eight sharp, Potter," he called over his shoulder.

XXXXX

Harry fidgeted in his chair. He was glad beyond words that Dumbledore had sent Snape away, but he certainly wasn't looking forward to the rest of this discussion. "Sir," he began hesitantly, "why did you go to see my relatives?"

Dumbledore sighed and eased down into the chair behind his desk. Harry had rarely seen the man so worn-looking; the wrinkles of his ancient face seemed to hang lower and more listlessly than before, and there was a brittleness about him that Harry could not quite place.

"Had I but known, Harry, I would not have sent you back to Privet Drive. I… I must beg your forgiveness, as it is. I thought things might be difficult, but never…."

Harry tried to fight against the cold rage that was rising in him, but he couldn't quite manage to restrain himself, even before the headmaster. "My letter was addressed to the cupboard under the stairs. That wasn't enough of a clue?"

The headmaster winced. "The letters are self-addressing," he murmured. "Sorry excuse that might be… I have failed you, Harry. I assumed that your home life was far from perfect, but I never imagined that your aunt's home would be a place so absent of love and affection. I should have kept a closer eye."

Harry tried to swallow back the pain and rage and bitterness that rose in him like bile. "Yeah, well, it's done now, like I said. And I don't think even a time turner can fix it, so no use dwelling on it. And really, sir, I'm older now, big enough to take care of myself. It's not like it was when I was little. I can make it 'til I reach my majority."

Dumbledore's weathered hands moved to smooth over a few pieces of parchment lying askew on his desk. "I should like to keep that as an option," he murmured, "in case the worse should come to pass. But I have contacted every one of my colleagues about the matter of the transference of blood wards, and I should like to believe that the dedication of so many brilliant minds will produce a solution to our problem. It is my sincere hope, Harry, that come summer, you will have no need to return to the Dursleys."

Harry nodded listlessly. He knew better than to get his hopes up. There were too many examples in his short life of how devastating such a thing could be.

Dumbledore continued to fiddle with his papers, then at last his restless hands settled. But still he refused to meet Harry's gaze directly, just as he had all year. "Harry. I do not wish to force you to divulge anything, certainly not to me if you do not feel comfortable… but I hope you know that my door is always open to you, and that you may come to speak to me about anything, at any time."

Harry nodded again, keeping his eyes down. It was hard to confide in someone, he thought, when they wouldn't even meet his gaze. "Thank you, sir. May I go?"

"Yes, yes, by all means. And the best of luck with your lessons, Harry," he added gravely. "I do hope they proceed more smoothly from here on out."

Harry felt the ghost of a smile grace his lips as he turned to leave. Yeah, that was another thing to consider. _Snape_.

What the hell was he to make of the man? Sure, he'd practiced late into the night what he was going to say to crawl back into—well, not the man's good books, that was an impossibility. But he, Ron, and Hermione had felt confident that the finalized version of his apology was sufficiently abasing to at least sway Snape to some degree of mercy.

Even so, Harry had expected to have to engage in a solid hour of alternately groveling and bearing the man's sharp insults. Not to mention agreeing to the man's ludicrously unfair punishments.

Yet Snape had hardly said a cruel word. _Had_ he even? Harry wondered as he tried to recall exactly what Snape had said following his apology.

Oh yes, it had been truly bizarre. It had been at that point that he'd contemplated quietly signaling to Dumbledore that he believed the man to be an impostor on Polyjuice. After all, if Barty Crouch Jr. had managed it….

But Harry wasn't sure he wanted the real Snape back, because this version had all but implied that he, too, was somehow at fault for all that had come to pass. Which, in a large way, he was, given all his goading and taunting and sheer vitriol. But for him to as much as admit it?

Harry shook his head as he made his way down to the Great Hall. He felt as if he'd stepped into Oz, from the Muggle movie he'd half-watched one time when he was younger before being herded into his cupboard, or maybe out to the garden. Yes, because not only had Snape hinted at his own fault, but he'd let Harry off the hook—completely, without a harsh word. Not a single detention, not a single House Point lost.

Harry pinched himself briefly, just to make sure this wasn't some elaborate nightmare. The resulting jolt of pain confirmed that yes, Severus Snape had declined to punish the Famous Harry Potter.

Then again, Dumbledore had been there, Harry mused, and the headmaster had seemed to be squarely on his side, entirely excusing his bout of accidental magic—likely as a product of stress. And hadn't Snape mentioned something about sharing his memory with the headmaster? So perhaps that was it. Perhaps it was merely that Dumbledore had decided to intervene and had tied Snape's hands and forced him to make nice with the Gryffindor Golden Boy.

Which meant that Snape would be a real treat to deal with come Monday night. Yes, all their careful work to engender genuine forgiveness in Snape, Harry thought bitterly, undone by Dumbledore's meddling. _You can lead a Snape to Potter, but you can't force him to teach Occlumency. Well, at least not well_. Harry permitted himself a small smile at his own pathetic joke, because he knew that if he didn't find some humor in the situation the unfairness and anger would simply overwhelm him, something that he could ill afford.

Though, he thought, reflecting back on the bizarre turn of events, Snape hadn't seemed resentful after his apology, or when announcing that they would forego punishment. In fact, the only time he'd reverted to his nasty self had been once he and the headmaster had started prying into Harry's private affairs.

And even then, Snape had seemed almost… well, protective. Throwing out phrases like _emotional and mental well-being_ and _damage to your psyche_ , as if he believed that any of that malarkey mattered. Snape barely cared about his _physical_ well-being, and even that only seemed to extend to Harry being alive and not mortally wounded. The thought of Snape caring beyond that made Harry's skin crawl.

As Harry reached the Great Hall, he tried to shove all those thoughts forcefully aside. Especially the bit about not having to go back to the Dursleys. Because he knew how that would go; Dumbledore would try and try, but to no avail, and then it would be back to Number 4 Privet Drive and making no noise and pretending he didn't exist, not to mention shutting up that bloody bird.

He spotted Ron and Hermione in the middle of the Gryffindor table, Hermione fidgeting nervously in her seat and craning her neck all around while Ron, rather predictably, was stuffing his face. Hermione spied him and waved him over, the gesture borderline spasmodic.

Harry settled down beside Ron, who sprayed at him through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, "Mae, y'alive!"

Harry managed a weak grin. "Yeah, surprisingly."

"What happened? How did it go? What did he say?" Hermione demanded breathlessly.

Harry wasted no time in recounting the day's thoroughly strange events, including Snape's sudden penchant for leniency, skimming over the bits about the headmaster learning about the Dursleys.

"He didn't punish you," Ron repeated blandly for what had to be the fifth time.

Harry pushed the last bite of his bacon around on his nearly-empty plate. "Well, no, but…." He hesitated to share the latest theory that had cropped up in his mind, for fear that the redhead would overreact. "It was all too easy, you know? And I'm starting to think that Dumbledore wouldn't let him punish me officially—because they were both in his office before I got there, and they had to be discussing _something_. And you know how Snape is. He might not be able to do anything officially without going against Dumbledore, but I'll bet you anything he gets his jollies somewhere else. I mean, he's basically got free range to tear through my mind in the name of our lessons…." Harry shook his head and fought the urge to slam his forehead against the wooden table.

"You don't think he's still going to be awful in your lessons, do you?" Hermione asked tentatively.

"I'll be you anything he's worse," Harry grumbled. "Which means I'd better find some way to stay on top of the subject, so that I can at least _try_ to protect myself. Besides, the faster I learn, the faster I can be done with him. And then it's just Potions…."

"You're sure he didn't insult you?" Ron pressed. "Because, you know, even if Dumbledore wouldn't let him put you in detention for life, I bet he still would have gotten at least a few good snide remarks in. Kind of what he does, you know."

Harry sighed. "I think he was lulling Dumbledore into a false sense of security. Because let's face it, this is Snape. I immobilized him and shouted at him. He's going to want revenge for that, and he's got ample opportunity to get it. You just wait."

Hermione tapped a finger against her cheek. "Harry, I've been thinking..."

"Uh-oh," Ron muttered.

Hermione shot him a dirty look before continuing. "The Room of Requirement… it's an incredible resource, you realize? Making use of it for the DA is just one use. Like last night… there are so many other uses for that room that we've been neglecting. Not that overdependence isn't a potential problem, of course…."

"Hermione, spit it out," Harry pleaded impatiently.

"It would be _perfect_ for studying Occlumency," she blurted, twin spots of excitement coloring her cheeks. "Think about it! The Room would likely conjure every text you could possibly ever need, and it would create the perfect environment for you to concentrate. If you just spent a few hours there every day, I bet you could make great progress. And then you can show Professor Snape that you're really serious about this, and maybe he'll work a little harder at teaching you, if only so he can get rid of you sooner."

Harry was nodding long before she'd finished making her argument. "You're right, it would be perfect. And I need all the extra practice I can get, even if it's just to keep the bastard away from my private memories."

"There's something else I was thinking about," Hermione continued blithely. "I thought to order extra books on the subject from Flourish and Blotts, but they had nothing listed. It's a very rare art, you know, and it's considered Dark by most reputable sources—"

"Figures," Ron muttered, shooting a disparaging look up at the Head table where Snape was seated.

"The Headmaster is an accomplished Occlumens, too, Ron," Hermione chided, her brow furrowing. Then she continued, as if she'd never been interrupted, "The Hogwarts library has few books on the subject, too—except in the Restricted Section."

Harry stared at her for a moment, not entirely sure what she was getting at. "So? There's no way I'm getting permission to access any of those books. Not with Umbridge lurking about. If it were up to her, she'd probably burn half the books in the library, because the knowledge is too _dangerous_ or _upsetting_ for us to have."

Hermione recoiled slightly, probably at the mere thought of her precious library in flames. But that moment passed, and she fixed Harry with a meaningful stare. "You do have an Invisibility Cloak, don't you?"

Ron beat Harry to the punch. "Hermione Granger, are you actually _proposing_ mischief-making this time? Stealing forbidden books from the library?"

Hermione smacked him playfully, a shy grin stealing over her lips. "Remind me who proposed Polyjuice in our second year? We stole more than just the potions text for that, you know."

Ron blushed. Apparently, he _had_ forgotten about that. "Yeah, but I thought that was a one-time thing. You know, like you got all your rule-breaking out in one go, and then you were back to goody-goody Granger—"

Hermione smacked him again, this time with more force. "If you call me that again, I'll hex your tongue off," she threatened.

Ron grinned broadly, suddenly looking very much like one of the twins about to test out a new product. He put on a high falsetto. "Don't call me goody-goody Granger," he mocked, clasping a hand daintily to his cheek. "Just because I do extra homework and scold like a mother hen—"

"So these texts," Harry intervened, before Ron could push Hermione too far. He'd done it before, and the results hadn't been pretty. Reversible, of course, but still not pretty. "When do you propose we get them?"

Hermione leaned in closer to the two of them. "Well," she began, "we already have a DA meeting tonight, right? I say we just linger after. You reset the room for Occlumency, and Ron and I can take the map and the cloak and find the right texts. That way you can get a head start on practicing. And given the way the Room functions, you could probably stash the texts we nick in there, so that no one stumbles across them by accident."

"And if Madame Pince notices they're missing?" Harry inquired, raising a brow.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. I kept _Most Potente Potions_ for months without her so much as batting an eye. I think she takes the protections on the Restricted Section for granted."

Harry continued to reposition his lone bit of bacon absently, his thoughts straying to what his next lesson with Snape might be like. He barely repressed a shudder. "Well… this is even more important than that was. I mean, sure, Malfoy _could_ have been the Heir of Slytherin, but we didn't _have_ to go about things that way. Now, we're stealing supplemental materials so I can learn something Dumbledore thinks I need. We're scarcely doing anything wrong."

"We've done way worse than nicking a few dangerous books," Ron muttered, rolling his eyes. "I don't know why you've got your robes in a twist over this, Harry. We're practically professionals at this point. Umbridge will never find out, and even if she does, she'll never be able to pin it on you. It's not like you're going to keep the evidence in your trunk."

Harry nodded to himself. "Right."

After breakfast, the three Gryffindors tried to make their way up to the Tower to gather their texts before class. But they were waylaid before they ever reached the Fat Lady.

The first hint of something amiss came as a strange funeral dirge—very brassy—floating down the corridor. The three glanced in puzzlement at each other, but Harry shrugged and pressed on, which convinced Ron and Hermione to follow suit.

But just as Harry turned the corner, he was caught between two tall figures dressed all in black, with long lacy veils covering their faces. The funeral dirge seemed to be emanating from them.

Harry panicked for half a second, scrabbling for his wand and vaguely hoping that Ron and Hermione would back him up.

But he relaxed when the figures spoke.

"Just who we were looking for!" Fred—or possibly George—exclaimed.

"And here we thought—"

"—we'd have to start mourning without him!"

Harry squinted at the two of them, utterly baffled—though not for the first time. "Uh… hi. What's all this then about mourning? And why are you dressed like this?"

"Talk of the Tower, mate," Gred explained.

"Everyone knows you were set to be slaughtered by Snape," Forge inserted smoothly.

"So we thought we'd honor your life—"

"By holding a proper wake," they finished together.

Harry made another effort to free himself from the twins, but they held him fast.

"Now, now," Gred chided, "it's not proper for the honoree to squirm so."

"Not even for an open casket."

"How's everyone know about Harry and Snape?" Ron chimed in from somewhere behind Harry.

Harry really wished the twins would just release him. He wasn't too enthused with the idea of being frog-marched into the Common Room for whatever event they'd organized.

The twins exchanged a glance in response to Ron's question. "Speculation," they answered together.

"Harry had panicked—"

"—after his Remedial Potions—"

"—looked like he'd seen ol' Voldy himself—"

"—and slipped off with you two in a panic. We figured—"

"—had to be something bad—"

"—and if it involved _Snape_ —"

"—Harry had to be as good as dead."

"Were we wrong?" the twins inquired in unison.

"Be a shame to waste all this effort," Forge added thoughtfully.

Harry felt a slight flush color his cheeks. "No," he muttered. "Not entirely. Remedial Potions didn't, ah, go quite as expected last night." And, knowing that the two wouldn't be satisfied until he spilled the whole story, Harry quickly sketched out his bout of accidental magic.

"But Snape didn't even punish me," Harry concluded. "I don't know if Dumbledore wouldn't let him or what."

Harry could see the twins' broad grins even through their thick, lacy veils. And quite suddenly he found himself hoisted in the air and perched between their shoulders as the funeral dirge abruptly changed to a cheery, upbeat march.

"He lives!" Forge declared as they carried him off toward the tower. "It's a miracle!"

The twins ignored the Fat Lady's indignant exclamations when they arrived at the Tower entrance. Instead, they simply gave the password and carted Harry through the portrait hole as quickly as possible. Ron and Hermione weren't far behind, and managed to slip in before the Fat Lady swung shut again.

At last the twins set Harry back on his feet, though that was mostly so he could receive the smattering of sarcastic applause from the few Gryffindors gathered for the "funeral". There was Lee Jordan, of course, and Katie Bell, along with Angelina Johnson and both Creevey brothers. The flash a camera blinded Harry before he could take in the rest of the scene—Neville and Ginny in the corner, Neville staring at him with wide eyes and Ginny offering him a half-sympathetic, half-amused smirk.

And the pictures. Fred and George had outdone themselves. They'd strewn the room with miniature shrines consisting of flowers, lit candles, and, of course, inflated pictures of Harry. Unflattering pictures, likely Creevey rejects, all of them taken while Harry was either in the middle of eating or sneezing or making some inexplicable face.

Angelina Johnson was the one to speak up first. She plucked up the Butterbeer she'd been nursing and raised it in a sort of toast. "To our former Seeker," she announced, as the rest of the room followed suit. "May he not end up as potions ingredients."

Harry couldn't help but grin sheepishly as the other occupants rallied with cries of "hear, hear!".

Harry felt one of the twins clap him heartily on the back. "To our _current_ Seeker," Gred amended smugly, "who has artfully evaded death at the hands of Snape."

The mood in the room instantly turned euphoric. Angelina and Katie actually whooped and embraced each other, while Neville looked as if he'd just learned that a dying Harry would live through the night.

"Okay, okay," Lee Jordan called after a few joyful seconds. He fixed Harry with a calculating gaze. "How many points?"

Harry's sheepish smile grew. "None."

Lee blinked as he continued to stare uncomprehendingly. "None," he repeated skeptically. "How many detentions?"

"None," Harry informed him.

Lee's disbelieving stare shifted to the twins. "You said he was in deep with Snape."

"And so he was," Forge confirmed. "Deep, deep, deep. So deep he was bound never to see the light of day again."

"Called the man a 'miserable bastard'," Gred added cheerily.

"And Potter got off scot-free. With _Snape_."

Hermione and Ron pushed their way into the loose circle, evidently tired of being relegated to the back.

"It's true," Ron asserted. "We were up all night rehearsing apologies with him. Whatever he said must have worked."

"But don't go off expecting things to be different with him," Harry cautioned. "I think it was probably just a temporary bout of insanity, or something like that. Maybe experimental potion fumes. If anything, he's probably more determined to cause Gryffindor suffering now."

There was a moment of silence. Then Angelina raised her Butterbeer again and amended her toast. "To Potter the miracle-worker! Long may he live!"

The chorus of "hear, hear" was even heartier this time. And for just a moment, Harry allowed himself to bask in the glow of the light atmosphere, his heart still warmed from what Fred and George had tried to do. Because as ludicrous and self-serving as such a stunt was, he knew that deep down they'd been trying to make certain that whatever blow Harry suffered from the Potions Master was mitigated by this brief moment of companionship and solidarity.

And that was something he would cherish more than all the gold in Gringotts.


End file.
